bones of the moon
black cocktail
a child across the sky
outside the dog museum
the panic hand
kissing the beehive
the land of laughs
the marriage of sticks
from the teeth of angels
sleeping in flame
voice of our shadow
the wooden sea
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There was a dancing bum who smelled like a sandwich at the bus stop. It was raining and snowing and no one else was around but the two of us. I didn’t know if he was waiting for the bus but sure as hell hoped not. I’d just missed the last one and had a sinking feeling the next wouldn’t be arriving for a while. Which meant this ripe Mr. Bojangles ten feet away would be the entertainment until then. Unless he was just resting here a moment before continuing on his world tour. Even five feet away in the cold wet winter outdoors, I could smell him. He oozed the foul perfume of eight million cigarettes and a cheap meat sandwich. Hot old grease on a roll. Dancing by himself, he was having a great time. His eyes were closed but he looked happy, relaxed and completely unselfconscious. I didn’t know where to look. It was kind of cool watching him dance but I was afraid that as soon as he opened his eyes and saw me, he’d come over and ask for money, or make some kind of lingering weird-leer or mad-bum patter that would give the rest of the morning a bad taste. Suddenly he started singing The Dixie Cups’ song, “The Chapel of Love.” And he knew all the lyrics. Still dancing, eyes closed, he began singing and he knew all the lyrics to that song. Most people know some lyrics to a song, usually the chorus. They’ll sing a line or two but invariably their voices fall off into hum or mumble and then go silent. Not this guy. I knew all the words to “The Chapel of Love” too because it was one of the benchmark songs of my Wonder Years. I think I first heard it while riding around in Richard Bucci’s new red and white Chevelle Malibu convertible, and then a few hundred more times at significant events—during make out sessions at parties, on a portable transistor radio the color and size of a piece of toast while smoking cigarettes behind the school at night, and occasionally over the following years. Each time it played I stopped and blinked and drew a long measured breath. Even when your youth sucks, hearing the soundtrack from it down the years almost always cripples or caresses you. You can never tell which it’ll be until you hear it. So here was this sandwich smelling, dancing bum singing a song that was a lot more mine than his. It made me sort of angry. “You want it back?” I’d been staring at the ground, thinking about all this. When he spoke, I raised my head and saw that he was looking right at me. “Excuse me?” “I asked if you want your song back?” “Richard Bucci. Chevelle Malibu, Christine Kaupi-“ I hadn’t even thought about her name, but Christine was the girl I was making out with when I heard the song. “How do you know these things?” “Don’t fuck around. Do you want your song back or not?” “Well yes, I guess. I-” “All right then, here’s the deal. When the bus gets here, you have to get on and sing with me. But every important person from your childhood will be on that bus: Richard Bucci, Christine Kaupi, Mr. Danahar—“ “Mr. Danahar? I thought he died.” “He did, but he’s on there too. You and I are going to stand in front of them and sing this song. There’ll be four others too who were just as most important to you back then.” “Which ones?” I asked, my throat tightening at the thought. “I’m not telling. They’re all adults now so you won’t recognize some. But they’ll recognize you. They’ll think ‘My God, what happened to him? Look at who he’s hanging around with now.” The bum smiled and his teeth were straight but the color of old buttons. I was dressed in a ski jacket, khakis, and boots. I didn’t look like anybody. I looked like everybody. As if having read my mind he said, “That’s the point—Everybody has the soundtrack of their life in their head. Even the dead have one. Even the dead remember their favorite songs.” “But why me? Why did you choose me?” “You should be thrilled. It’s the only time in your life that you’ve ever been singled out to do anything. You’re the guy they always pass over. This time you’ve been chosen. Hooray for you.” “But they’ll think I’m like you and I’m not.” “No, you’re worse—you’re a ghost with a heartbeat. At least people remember bums who dance.” He smiled again and it was an insult without words. “If you sing, you’ll get your song back. You’ll have Christine and her 7th grade kisses again. Hey, we want only pure memories hung in the Museum of Me, right? What do you care what these people think of you? You haven’t seen them in forty years. “But if you don’t do it, then every time you hear this song from now on, it’ll smell like a bad meat sandwich.” “But they’ll think-“ “That you’re a loser. Correct. Even worse—They’ll see us together and think you’ve sunk below sea level. They’ll see you singing with the stinking bum and shudder. You can count on it. “Anyway, which will it be: keep your memories pure or keep your image safe?” I could hear the bus coming.
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